The Caspian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  "Yeah, good luck on that one. What time do you think he'll show up?"

  "Probably pretty early, has to be before he goes to work. I'll come in before seven, just to make sure."

  "Sound's good. You might give the Marines at the gate a heads up. Don't want them turning him away."

  Sam nodded and sighed. He didn't have a good feeling about the whole affair. Things seemed to be spinning out of control.

  * * *

  Three hours wasted. Jack began to fidget, the chair, hard and uncomfortable. The reception at the ministry was less than cordial, bordering on hostility. He wasn't alone, an eclectic collection of European and Asian vendors waited for a chance to make their case. They had genuine business, Jack was there to set up his cover story.

  So far no one had been called into the office. A well-dressed slick-haired Italian approached the counter multiple times, only to be rebuffed and eventually ignored before he stormed out in a huff. Uncomfortable as he was, Jack fell back on his Special Forces training: be patient and wait for an opportunity.

  Thirty minutes after the Italian's dramatic departure, the door swung open and a man emerged. Not an Iranian, but a tall well-tanned American dressed in an expensive European suit. Jack knew he was American, he had seen him before. It had been ten years, but Carl Walker's chiseled features were not easy to forget.

  Careful not to make eye contact or an obvious hint of recognition, Jack followed the man out of the office in his peripheral vision. His first impulse was to trail the man, but the mission came first. He would sit and wait.

  What's that SOB doing here? Jack took a deep breath. Carl Walker had flown for Air America in Thailand. Jack had not worked with him but knew him by sight and reputation. He had left the region under clouded circumstances and was reputed to be involved in shady arms deals. When I get back, I'll give John Smith a heads-up.

  * * *

  Late in the afternoon, Jack swept through the front entrance of the Intercontinental, intent on heading straight for the bar to meet Amadeo. A man sporting a dark blue suit with no tie caught Jack's attention. The security officer, Captain Rezaei, appeared to be waiting for him.

  Just as the man was about to stand, Jack took the initiative. He knew from experience, it was often best to gain control of the situation early in the game. "Hey friend," he called out, loud enough to attract attention. "Let me buy you a drink." The man seemed taken aback. "Come on, I've had a hell of a day, I need some advice."

  "What do you—"

  "Look, I sat on my butt all day up at the Ministry of Defense and never got past the front desk. Do you know anybody over there?"

  "I do not—"

  Jack motioned towards the bar, "Come on, I'll buy you a lemonade." The man hesitated. "Say, what do you guys have against Coca-Cola? Last night some American told me you can't even get a Coke in this country."

  The man halted, regained his composure, and asked in an official tone, "Why did you speak to the American?"

  Jack put on an incredulous look, "You mean the Black guy at the bar? I asked him what he was drinking. Is that a crime?"

  "What did you speak about?"

  "Football, he said he was from Baltimore and I asked him about the Colts. You have heard of football, haven't you?"

  The man gave Jack a disgusted stare, "You mean the American rugby — Yes..."

  "We play it in Canada too. My team's the Calgary Stampeders."

  "This American, what else did you talk about?"

  Jack sighed and took a deep breath. "Okay, I confess." The man furrowed his brows as Jack shrugged. "I asked him where a thirsty man could get a real drink in this town." From the man's dismayed look, Jack knew he had him. "Look pal, I'm Canadian and live in Belgium, we love our beer. You guys need to be culturally sensitive and loosen up a bit, at least for the foreigners' sake."

  Rezaei offered a hint of a smile. "What was his answer?"

  "Said the embassy was the best place to score some booze. Told me they had a good stock of Bud. Not my first choice by any means, but at least it's wet."

  "This is not—"

  "You're a sophisticated man, you speak good French, don't you yearn for a glass of wine, once in a while?"

  The captain made a furtive glanced around, as if to see if anyone was paying attention to the conversation gone awry. "Vous devez vous abstenir de telles activités, il est illégal."

  Jack shrugged again with a pained look asked the man to have some sympathy, "Mon ami, une certaine sympathie."

  "Je ne suis pas votre ami. — You must be careful, do not speak of this again. And, do not attempt to—"

  "Okay, okay, I get you — Come on, how about that drink?"

  Rezaei took in a deep breath, pulled himself erect, gave a fierce glare, brushed pass Jack, and stormed out the front door. Jack raised his palms in a gesture of bewilderment, smiled, and headed for the bar.

  Amadeo sat alone at a far table. Their eyes met, Amadeo nodded, and Jack took a seat at the bar and ordered lemonade. Five minutes later, he left the bar. Amadeo had left three minutes before. He took the elevator to the floor with Amadeo's room, knocked, and entered.

  "How'd it go?" asked Amadeo.

  "Had an encounter out in the lobby with the security guy that interrogated me when we got here. Somebody snitched to him about my meeting with the brother."

  "Think he's on to you?"

  "Nah, I came up with a legend so bizarre that he wouldn't ever suppose I was using it for a cover. Told him I was trying to find some booze — seemed to deflect his attention."

  "Or put you on his radar big time."

  "Don't think bootleggers are his primary focus. Anyway, if they see me sneaking into the American embassy, I'll have a readymade cover story. Told him somebody there had a stash of Bud for sale."

  "How'd it go at the ministry?"

  "Sat on my butt for six hours straight — never got past the guy at the reception." He shrugged, "Just your typical run-around. But other than that, it was a fun day in good old Teheran."

  "Did they seem to buy your cover story?"

  "I don't think they even gave it a thought. There were a bunch of Europeans and a few Asians, either with the same problem or trying to sell something. Talked to a Swiss ammo salesman, he thinks they still haven't worked out their official bribe schedule."

  "For real?"

  "He didn't seem to be kidding. You know the Swiss. They ain't exactly fun and games when it comes to making a buck… or Franc. One strange thin though, saw a ghost from the past."

  "Not one of your old girlfriends?"

  "No, Carl Walker. You ever hear of him?"

  "Can't say I have."

  "He was a former Air Force pilot who went to work for Air America in Thailand. Rumor has it, he left under dubious circumstances and disappeared before they had a chance to make a case on him."

  "For what? Drugs?"

  "Don't think he was involved it that, but I heard he was involved in moving some misappropriated arms to the Middle East. Haven't heard or even thought about him again, until this morning."

  "Sure it was him?"

  "You don't forget someone like Carl Walker."

  "You worked with him?"

  "No. But I've been around him. Saw him a few times in Thailand."

  "Did he recognize you?"

  "No. He didn't even look my way, never made eye contact. If he had made me, I would've noticed. Besides, he has no cause to remember me, we never met. Back then, he was further up the food chain and I was near the bottom. I was tempted to follow and see what he's up to, but…" Jack shrugged.

  "Yeah, maintain your focus on the mission." Amadeo had his doubts, but trusted Jack's judgement. "Okay, what does it mean?"

  "Nor sure. I'll brief John when we get back, he might be interested."

  "No doubt."

  "How 'bout you, any luck?"

  "Checked out the area around the embassy. Got a feeling something's about to happen. Then I went to check out the cafe where our guy wo
rks."

  "You didn't go in, did you?"

  "Had to. The place was being watched. Didn't want to risk a second pass, so I went in and had a kebab."

  "But we don't know who he is or what he looks like."

  "I only saw one guy, the waiter. Didn't have a chance to check out the back, but he was real nervous and kept checking out the window. Must be our boy."

  Jack shook his head. "Did he buy your cover? Hope you didn't spook him."

  "No problem. He didn't pay me any particular attention. And, to top it off, the Black dude from the embassy went in right after I left."

  "You're sure the place was under surveillance?"

  "It was obvious. Looks like they pulled some thug off the street. Not a real pro, but why take a chance, he could make a lucky guess."

  "That's the impression I get. More brawn than brains, but like you say, never trade luck for skill. We don't need to let our guard down."

  Amadeo nodded in agreement. "How do you plan to handle your meeting at the embassy?"

  "Goin' in early, say 'bout seven or so. Need to check out that recorder the embassy guy says he has."

  "You think you can do it?"

  "I can tell if its telemetry, beyond that, it'll just have to wait till we get back home."

  "I still don't understand why they can't just stick it in the diplomatic pouch."

  "Yeah, I thought about that. Wilson must be afraid it'll fall into the wrong hands."

  "You think the Iranian's would try to grab a diplomatic pouch?"

  "No, by wrong hands, I mean Hansen or some of his buddies at NSA or Langley. Wilson's more concerned about them than he is the Iranians."

  "Do you want me to tag along behind?"

  "Why don't you get there first? Try to be on a street corner so I can spot you. You can blend in with the rest of them. I'll pop in, take care of business, and then we're outta here."

  Sounds simple … what could go wrong?"

  "You have to ask?"'

  * * *

  An hour later, Jack and Amadeo sat in the bar. Amadeo talking futbol with his new buddies from Valencia and Jack at the bar conversing with a Lufthansa stewardess. It was obvious she was interested. He seemed to be making some headway with the statuesque blonde. Amadeo looked on with envy.

  She responded to Jack's attempt at humor with a devastating smile and a gentle grip on his forearm. Amadeo resigned himself to going to the embassy in the morning, alone. Jack had done it again.

  A man entered the bar, halted near the entrance, and gave the place a practiced onceover. Amadeo noticed him out of the corner of his eye. The tall well-tanned man wore an expensive European suit. He took a table near the end of the bar and sat with his back to the wall facing the door.

  Something about the man caused Amadeo to pause his conversation. He glanced over at Jack. The stewardess prattled away with her deep sexy accent, but Jack's full attention wasn't on her.

  Jack stole a glance towards Amadeo. His eyes sent a message. — 'Watch out.'

  A half-hour later, Jack's luck ran out. A Lufthansa pilot tapped the blonde on the shoulder and she bade Jack auf Wiedersehen. She had an early flight in the morning.

  The man finished his lemonade and left. Seconds later Jack followed. Amadeo held his position, listening to the chances of Club Valencia repeating as Copa del Rey champions.

  A few minutes later, Jack appeared at the entrance and flicked his jaw towards the elevator. After a brief interval, Amadeo left and joined Jack in his room.

  "Let me guess," said Amadeo. "Carl Walker."

  Jack nodded in affirmation. "Yep, and he's staying at this hotel on the third floor."

  "Did he make you?"

  "Don't think so."

  Amadeo grinned. "Too bad about your babe. She looked like a live one."

  Jack seemed to have a way with airline stewardesses, the last time they were in Iran, Jack had hooked up with a tall attractive brunette from Air France, Rochelle Loubet. She dumped Jack after the shootout at the Salang Pass in Afghanistan. She wanted no more to do with, "OK corral de cow-boys Américains."

  "There's always a next time. Maybe we can fly out of here on Lufthansa."

  "What do we do about Walker?"

  "Dunno, I was about to ask you."

  "Let's stay focused on getting the tape. There's nothing we can do here, we don't even know what he's up to. Could even be legit."

  "Not likely, but you're right. We'll let John worry about Walker. Wish we had a way to message him"

  12 ~ Takeover

  Friday AM, 4 November 1979: Tehran, Iran

  Sam Brooks watched with concern as the latest demonstration gathered outside the graffiti covered brick walls surrounding the American embassy, normally a quiet sanctuary surrounded by the turmoil of revolutionary Tehran.

  Today was Friday, the Holy Day. In addition, someone had proclaimed it as National Student's Day. A signal to some that it was time to confront the Great Satan, the symbolic source of evil — the United States of America. The university lay down the road from the main gate on Takht-e-Jamshid, one of the main streets. For weeks, students had watched the embassy compiling drawings of the grounds and recording the daily routine in the den of spies.

  Sam worried if the added security measures: bulletproof glass, sandbags, and barbed wire, would hold back the horde if they decided to storm the walls. In his mind, these actions only served to intensify the student's frenzy. The radicals interpreted the precautions as measures designed to hide intrigues cooked up inside the compound.

  On a street corner, a half block away, Amadeo observed the happenings. Bearded student leaders, wearing badges with a picture of Khomeini, moved through the crowd barking orders over bullhorns. People milled around, talking, their mood strange, cooled by intermittent light rain. The demonstration began to grow. A familiar face emerged, moving through the crowd.

  Azad carefully approached the embassy and made his way past the demonstrators. The gate was chained shut. Marine guards deployed on the far side appeared nervous. Iranian guards posted on the outside ignored the happenings. A Marine chambered a round as a group approached the gate. They retreated. Azad moved away.

  Jack stood on a corner a block away. The taxi driver had insisted he get out five blocks from the embassy, not a good sign. He glanced around looking for Amadeo but was unable to find him. The crowd was too large and chaotic.

  Amadeo considered approaching Azad. I'll just spook him. He don't know me. Besides, someone may overhear us. Better just let it ride. This thing may last all day.

  Azad began to panic. What am I to do? I cannot enter the embassy. If I do, I will be noticed. He turned to leave and bumped into a man wearing a green armband. The man gave him a stern look, Azad turned back towards the wall.

  Sam watched the demonstrators from the second floor of the chancery building. The crowd at the gate was building in frenzy. He scanned the crowd for a sign of Azad. He was nowhere to be seen.

  Looks like I'll have to wait 'till things settle down. These guys might be here all day. No way Azad will try to plow through that bunch.

  Sam decided to go to the consular office on the grounds of the embassy. Since the office was closed for the day, he wanted to make sure Azad's visa was ready. He didn't need any last-minute glitches.

  "Azad Shirazi," the consular officer leafed through a stack of visa applications, "don't remember that name…"

  "We asked for it to be expedited a couple of days ago," said Sam.

  "Wait a sec, I'll check the safe."

  A woman standing by a window yelled, "They're over the fence and headed into the compound." Several people rushed over to watch the developing situation.

  The man returned. "Got it, everything is in order. Is he here?"

  "No, I'll bring him in when he gets here." And after he delivers the tape, thought Sam.

  Sam opened the door to return to the chancery and retreated. A mob, armed with rocks and sticks, streamed through the compound, yelling, and sc
reaming familiar anti-American slogans. Someone shouted for him to lock the door.

  Sam knew it was only a matter of time before the mob broke into the chancery. The consular office would not be spared. The crowd in the compound screamed, "CIA, CIA, CIA." They believed everyone in the embassy worked for the CIA. He checked the door to the street. The revolutionary guards, who were posted outside, didn't seem to be taking part in the mob's assault.

  The consular staff began to debate the best option, stay or flee. Sam had already decided. It was time to get out of Dodge. He strode towards the door and hurried away from the embassy. As he made his way down a side street, he saw a horde of people, two blocks away, headed in his direction. He knew he would not to make it through the mob and turned off at the first intersection. Then it started raining.

  * * *

  The crowd surged towards the gate. A Marine raised his weapon. A bearded demonstrator shouted, "Let us talk to the Ambassador."

  An American official stepped outside the gate and tried to speak to the leaders. Moments later, a group of students seized the man. The crowd began to yell. Another official followed, only to meet the same fate, a bearded demonstrator held a gun to his head.

  Without warning, the gates swung open and students swarmed into the compound. Others scrambled over the walls. The frenzied mob streamed through the grounds. Leaders shouted for the Americans to surrender. The swarm swept Azad into the compound.

  Amadeo spotted Jack on the next street corner and inched carefully towards his location. The crowd's frenzy increased. A half block from Jack, a group of students surged forward towards the gate.

  The students swept past Jack, the only person not moving. A man halted beside Jack and shouted, "You American Satan — You American Satan." Two others joined him, then three more, soon the mob surrounded Jack, all yelling at the top of their lungs, "You American Satan — You American Satan."

  Amadeo glanced back to the gate. Azad was no longer visible. The mob encircled Jack, blocking his view. Amadeo made his way towards the entrance, moving along with the flowing throng. Azad was gone.

  Men grabbed Jack's arms from either side. He struggled until someone landed a rabbit punch to the back of his head. His knees buckled. The men kept him from falling to the sidewalk. The last thing he remembered was a fist reaching terminal velocity, inches from his face.